Mission Complete
by elysichor
Summary: The Winter Soldier is in custody, and Steve will do whatever it takes to bring Bucky back, even when the Soldier insists he's gone. Oneshot.


Three weeks ago they found him.

Two weeks ago Steve was allowed to see him.

One week ago Steve decided that Bucky Barnes was still somewhere inside the Winter Soldier.

He hadn't said a word, not one goddamn word since he'd been brought in. He hadn't even fought them; he seemed resigned to his fate. He didn't cause trouble, hadn't hurt anyone. He wouldn't eat either, but that was easily remedied with an IV.

Steve almost cried when he first saw him. He was dirty and bloody—whose blood it was, no one was sure—and in his eyes was the look of a caged animal. His right arm, his real arm, was broken. Steve tried to forget that it had been he who had broken it.

At first he didn't say anything; he just sat near him, felt his presence. The Soldier never once took his eyes off of him, always wary, always watching. He never did anything in front of Steve. Hardly even moved.

When Steve decided it was time to start reaching out, he did so gently. First it was with a quiet "Hi, Bucky," that startled the Soldier—Steve didn't say anything else for the rest of that visit, didn't want to scare him more.

Three days passed before the Soldier didn't flinch at the sound of his voice, and that was when Steve began.

"I know you don't remember me," he said during one visit, "but I remember you. Um, you might actually feel like you know me. I know you actually do know me, deep down, even though you can't remember. We were best friends. Closer than best friends."

He would talk and talk, with the Soldier staring at him throughout. At first the things Steve talked about were trivial—an interesting person at the supermarket, how his motorcycle's tires were wearing out and he kept forgetting to replace them, or the latest girl Natasha had tried to set him up with. Sometimes, though, he would pause, look at the Soldier sadly, and have to take a moment before he could continue. Eventually he started talking about his past: "I remember this one time…'41, I think…really harsh winter, I got the flu and the roads were covered in ice. You were goin' nuts, yelling at the doctor over the phone while wrappin' me in another blanket." He paused, a distant expression on his face, and then gave a small, halfhearted smile. "Soon as the roads were safe he came out, but I was mostly better by then, and he straight up accused you of overreacting. You never called him for anything again, said he didn't take us seriously because I was sick so often…" His nostalgic gaze traveled to the Soldier's face, a blank, impassive mask, and he sighed. "Anyway, you looked out for me real well. You always did."

Then, another time, it was about Bucky. "You always had the girls lined up down the block. I was always jealous." He shook his head good-naturedly. "I know you meant well, but you were always sort of oblivious…well, to a lot of things." He swallowed and continued, "You liked blondes. And soda pop. And the crazy, fast rides at the carnival that nearly broke my neck…"

The next time he came, it was with a box of photographs.

"I know you've been listening to everything I've been saying, which is at least a start," he said in a businesslike way as he set the box down. "I know you're in there, Buck, and I'm willing to fight to get you back." He pulled a photo out of the box, of two kids standing in front of an ice cream parlor. One child was on the verge of adolescence, his jaw jutting out proudly as he looked into the camera, his arm slung around a smaller gap-toothed boy with blond hair, an empty ice cream cone in his hand. "Every year on my birthday after my mom died you'd take me here. I got vanilla, you got rocky road. You said you didn't like the cones, so you always gave me yours after you'd eaten the ice cream."

He waited for a moment, studying the Soldier's face, and when there was no reaction he pulled out another one. It was the both of them in suits (Steve's noticeably big on him), standing outside some building. As in the last picture, Bucky's was smiling proudly at the camera, his arm around Steve, but Steve's smile wasn't as big as it used to be, and he was looking sideways at Bucky in a nervous way.

"The first time we went on a double date," he said. "I mean, after the girl got one look at me she was by your side for the rest of it, but I didn't mind."

Picture after picture he pulled out, telling a long, detailed story ("Remember this? Coney Island? God, that was the time of my life. Puked my guts out and had a panic attack, but the rest of it was great.") that always ended with him searching the Soldier for any reaction.

Finally, in the middle of a story about the time Bucky decided to take up sewing so he could modify Steve's clothes for him, the Soldier spoke.

"Why are you doing this?"

Silence descended at once. Steve stared at the Soldier, frozen with the photograph still in his hand. Finally, he slowly lowered it and said quietly, "Because I know you're in there."

"No he's not," the Soldier answered promptly. "Nothing you've said or shown to me—the pictures, the stories, the goddamn records—none of it is familiar. None of it has stirred anything even the tiniest bit. I don't. Feel. Anything."

Steve was again momentarily speechless at the Soldier's sudden decision to talk, but recovered and replied, "You know me. You _knew_ me. I saw it in your eyes, Buck. If only for a moment, you recognized me."

"I thought I did," the Soldier replied coldly. "I was wrong." He turned away from Steve to face the wall, a silent, still wall again.

Steve's heart was pounding, and he slowly gathered up the photos, then closed the box. He stood and said, "I'm not giving up on you."

Sure enough, he was back the next day.

And the next.

Every day for a week he came with something he claimed was Bucky's, or some record with some song he swore was Bucky's favorite. He would always lay the object on the bed, right next to the Soldier, and there it would stay until he left again. The Soldier hadn't spoken a word since Steve had left with the photos, but inside him was complete turmoil. All he saw when he looked at that man—his mission—was failure. He was a failure. In seventy years he had never lost a mission, certainly never been captured by one. If he didn't get out of here and complete it quick, Hydra would punish him. Severely. He folded his arms and brought his knees up. He didn't want to be punished again.

So, he decided he wouldn't be.

When next Steve came, it was with more photos. "Asked around SHIELD, apparently they had a ton of these in their archives," he said cheerily as he set the box on the Soldier's end table. "Better get started."

He chose a picture and held it up. "Us, right after I helped free the 107th. See this? It looks just like you. You have to know it's you."

The Soldier forced himself to make eye contact with the familiar stranger in the picture. He took a slow, deep breath and reached over with his metal arm. "Can…can I…"

"Yeah," Steve said eagerly, excitedly. "Yeah, of course, Buck—"

He didn't get to finish as the Soldier's hand closed around his throat. He struggled, clawing, kicking, but the Soldier kept him at arm's reach as he slowly forced him backwards, up against the wall.

Steve couldn't make a sound. His eyes were wide with terror and panic, contrasted by the hatred in the Soldier's own shadowed eyes. He squeezed as tightly as he could, never once breaking his gaze from his mission.

He held him there long after he'd gone limp.

Just to be sure.

His hand still wrapped around his t mission's throat, he lifted the man and then violently slammed him onto the floor. A small stream of crimson trailed away from gold.

The Soldier was breathing heavily, almost hyperventilating, and there was a wetness on his face which he assumed was sweat. Overexcitement, he told himself; they would be able to fix that once he got back to Hydra.

He could hear hurried footsteps coming down the hall to his room. The plates in his arm shifted, readying for combat.

As he waited for the unlucky nurse or doctor to enter, something on the floor caught his eye. He took a step towards it, and realized it was the photograph. In the photo, the man called Bucky had, like always, his arm around his mission—but the difference in this one was that the two men were gazing directly at each other, confident, as if the camera didn't exist.

He turned and looked back at his mission. Cold, pale skin. Lifeless blue eyes. A parted mouth that would never smile again.

Had its smile ever been for him?

In the photo, his double had the answer. So he turned away and prayed for oblivion.

The door opened and dozens of armed men surged in.

"Mission complete," he murmured, the words only for him.

Then all hell broke loose.


End file.
